White Night
by Trapped in Icy Flame
Summary: Peter goes to Isaac for help. Unfortunately for him Isaac has never been the helpful sort. Shamelessly kicking it old school with a shot back at PeterIsaac


-1For Mindy.

I own nothing

White Night

Peter Petrelli was frightened. It had been one thing when he thought he could fly (because, yeah, it was weird but it was so cool that it didn't really matter that it was scary). It was another thing entirely to wake up with pen drawings all over his wall (especially considering the security payment that he was now _never_ going to get back), good drawings, when the last time he had been conscious he had been unable to draw so much as a stick figure. And no one would believe him when he tried to explain it. Not even Nathan who had known him forever, and knew that he couldn't draw. And he honestly didn't know what to do without Nathan, who had been there for twenty-five years.

He remembered Simone telling him about her boyfriend, the drug addict who claimed that he could paint the future, and who Peter had gone to help after he had overdosed. So, alone and frightened, Peter Petrelli set out to visit Isaac Mendez.

Isaac was not a good person. He was neither kind nor accepting, and though he had no right to be he was extremely judgmental. So when Simone's new boy-toy came in claiming he could paint the future Isaac had snorted, and ignored the brief flash of hurt in the boy's eyes (Peter could not have been that much younger than him, but years aren't what ages you and Peter seemed so _young_). He'd given him a canvas and a paint-brush and told him to 'go for it'.

And, after a particularly loud woman had walked by on her cell phone shouting "No, being black listed does not mean having connections in the ghetto!", they had shared a smirk and Peter had begun. The finished portrait had been done in various shades of white, and looked, quite simply, as though Peter had merely slapped some white paint onto Isaac's white canvas and it annoyed the hell out of him (because canvases weren't cheap and Peter had just ruined a perfectly good one). Peter had looked confused at the painting, and then at him, and he felt like the asshole who kicked puppies when he laughed derisively at the painting.

"Unless you just painted the biggest blizzard to ever hit New York I think you had better lay of the drugs." It was a credit to the pure goodness of Peter that he didn't even think to throw Isaac's own over the top drug habit in his face. He ha merely looked down sheepishly and tucked his very black hair behind his ears.

Now, though, Isaac was just pissed. Not only was his apartment buried under ten million feet of snow (only a slight exaggerations, then feet or ten million there was nothing Isaac could do about it) with his ex-girlfriend's all too good new boyfriend (Isaac honestly couldn't think of anything bad to say about him, except that he looked like a German Shepard, but those were kind of cute, and he had been trying to think of an appropriate insult for _hours_) but _goddamn_ it the kid hadn't even had to shoot up to use his power, and he wouldn't tell Isaac how he did it.

Every time Isaac asked, and he had been asking every hour since the storm started he'd say something along the lines of "I don't know, I just did." And look at Isaac as though that was supposed to make sense, as though it was that simple, and he expected Isaac to understand.

Not to mention the fact that Isaac felt like a dick, because the little prick hadn't said 'I told you so', which might have been expected, as decent people over the age of twelve did not say such things. And, though Isaac wasn't entirely sure that Peter counted in the realm of 'over the age of twelve', not when he'd seen the huge grin that had split across his face when he came across the box of fruit loops, he was absolutely positive that the man with him qualified as more than decent. But he also hadn't sent him any smug looks, or smirked. And those were to have been expected, because even the most decent guy in the world was still a guy, and guys by nature, were competitive and mean and knew that they were always right (even when they weren't) and wanted everyone else to know it to.

But all Peter had done was look outside at the blizzard that had started sometime after his painting, when he was begging Isaac to believe him, without much success. A tiny part of Isaac whispered to him that Peter should not have had to beg because he _knew_ that things like that could and did happen, as evidenced by, well, himself. But it was just a tiny part, so Isaac had promptly forgotten about it, because a bigger part of him was sure that Simone had told Peter about her crazy, good for nothing ex-boyfriend who claimed that he could paint the future, and that Peter had come over to make a fool out of said ex-boyfriend, who was, of course, him.

And, as though his long list of complaints wasn't enough, it was cold, he had no heat, the storm didn't look like it would be stopping any time soon, and as much as he wanted to he couldn't just kick Peter out into the storm. Not when he had come in tennis shoes and scrubs. So he ran a hand through his long hair, and contemplated getting it cut while he looked at the other man, who was sitting at his table, still happily eating his fruit loops. At least, if the storm lasted long enough, he could kill the other man and eat him, although seeing as how all of his electricity, and his heat, and his water had been shut off after he had forgotten to pay the bills, he wasn't entirely sure how he would manage to cook Peter.

Who had just looked up at him with the kindest look in his eyes. "It looks like this will be going on for a while?" Isaac did not dignify that with a response, as it obviously was, and Simone was obviously keeping Peter around for his looks.

Peter then looked down at his feet, so that his shaggy hair fell over his eyes and he looked even more like a puppy. "So, I know that you are being really nice letting me stay here and all, seeing as how I know you don't like me, and that asking you for anything is probably pushing it, seeing as how I know you don't like me, but I was wondering if maybe you had some clothes I could borrow." He looked up hastily and gulped. "I mean, its really cold, and I'm not complaining because I know it would be even colder out there, but I'm prone to getting infections, and I don't want to get sick over here in the event that this lasts more than tonight, and be even more of an imposition on you."

Peter said all this looking up at him through unnaturally long eyelashes. Isaac had always known that he was considered to be a pretty boy, and had, for years, absolutely hated it, but he really had nothing on Peter with that look. He was almost positive that there was no one who had been exposed to that look that hadn't caved immediately. Because Peter was right, he didn't like him, and would in fact probably be amused if he got hypothermia and died, because he was far too nice and it was grating on Isaac's not-even-a-little-bit-nice nerves. Yet still he found himself getting up and rummaging through his dresser, and the piles on the floor for his second warmest items of clothes that he had (he was keeping the warmest for himself, seeing as how they were his clothes, and it was his house, even though he had the sick feeling that if it were Peter's house and Peter's clothing Peter would still be wearing the second warmest items).

He tossed them to Peter, who smiled gratefully before going in the other room to change. He had a lovely smile, that crinkled his eyes, and somehow managed to detract from his pure aesthetic beauty, while adding infinitely to his beauty in general. He came out looking absolutely ridiculous. He was at least three inches shorter than Isaac, and if Isaac were being generous twenty pounds lighter, so the sweatshirt that had been comfortable on him, made Peter appear as though he were swimming in fabric.

"Thanks". Peter blushed as he said it, and fought valiantly against the sleeves of the sweatshirt so that he could get his hands out. Isaac wanted to laugh at him, and then, seeing no reason not to, he did. Peter sent him a little glare. Reminded vividly of the time that he had been forced to wear Nathan's clothes all vacation after there was a tragic incident involving his suitcase, Nathan, and the car window. His parents refused to stop the car so he could go get his luggage, and had decided that a fair punishment for Nathan was to have to share his clothes. But Nathan always packed too many clothes, and he was also bigger and broader than Peter, so while it hadn't really effected his brother, Peter had been laughed at for two days. Until Nathan finally caved to the look that Peter had mastered from the crib, and went to buy him new clothes.

The new clothes had all been too tight, and scratchy, but he had worn them during the day, and slept in Nathan's oversized clothes.

Unfortunately, seeing Peter glaring at him, in clothes that didn't fit, through hair that probably needed a hair cut only made Isaac laugh harder. Soon Peter, never one to be left out of a joke, even one at his own expense, cracked a smile and started to chuckle.

Isaac grabbed his sketchbook, and tossed Peter a sheet of paper and a pen (because who couldn't entertain themselves given those tools?), and settled down to draw until the cold began to seep through his bones, so that even moving his hands was a chore. That pissed him off even more than the fact that Peter was sitting on the opposite end of the couch, folded into a position that looked to Isaac like it would be ridiculously uncomfortable sketching easily with white eyes.

He sat there and watched Peter, watched his fingers move, and his eyes move, though he wasn't sure how he could tell. Watched Peter draw as though it weren't dangerously cold, and as though his blood weren't freezing in his veins (he wondered how cold it actually had to be before blood froze). He watched, and his foul mood grew, until he was reaching over to shake Peter out of his daze. Except that didn't work, Peter just kept drawing, the paper shielded from view by his body. So Isaac sat and waited for Peter to snap out of it. By the time he had Isaac was ready for a fight.

Peter looked down at his sheet of paper, blanched and then turned it hastily over before glancing furtively at Isaac. He frowned when he saw the way Isaac's normally stunning face was contorted in his anger. "What's wrong?" he placed a hand gently on Isaac's arm, Isaac shook him off.

"Nothing would be wrong if you would just leave." He felt once again like he had kicked a puppy, and the guilt made him want to strike out more.

"I'm sorry." Peter looked helplessly down to his wool clad feet. "I'll leave as soon as the storm clears."

"It'd be better if you hadn't come in the first place."

"I needed your help!" Peter was defensive, and was beginning to get annoyed. He'd never done anything to the beautiful, foul-tempered, egotistical jerk.

"With what? You've already got more control than I do. I can't even draw without shooting up. I'm sure Simone told you." He sneered out her name, and revealed himself in the first two sentences. Peter winced and looked sadly at the artist.

"She didn't, but I'm sorry its so hard for you."

"Sorry, Sorry, Sorry. Do you know how to say anything else? What are you sorry for? Stealing my girl, stealing my art, or stealing my power?" Isaac's words hurt Peter more than they should have, but Peter had always been sensitive, and those accusations dug deep. And it is human nature to lash out when you have been hurt.

"I'm sorry that you are a drug addict that can't function without them. But, hey, that's not my fault. You knew what you were getting into the first time you shot up, and I don't want to judge you, but you can't blame me for the way it turned out. Of course you can't draw without the drugs. You can't eat or sleep without them, why should this be any different?" He took a deep breath, too outraged by the way Isaac had been treating him to bother glancing up to see how he was taking it.

"And I didn't steal your stupid power. I don't want your stupid power. I woke up one day, after I had come to see you because you had overdosed on your drugs and I was trying to help you. I can't draw smiley faces, and I don't like drawing any more than I like playing basketball, which I also suck at by the way, and all of the sudden my floors and walls are covered in these drawings that are both good and disturbing, because they are about things that haven't happened yet. And my brother is trying to get me institutionalized, and I remembered that you could paint the future, so I hoped that you would be able to tell me something."

"And as for Simone? I didn't steal her, because I don't want her either." He panted, his lips were red and dry so he licked them. "And I'm sure you are going to punch me after I say this, and its going to suck, because I really do hate getting punched. But the reason you lost Simone wasn't me. Its because, as lovely to look at as you are, you are just a foul-tempered, egotistical jerk who couldn't keep a woman happy if he tried."

Isaac didn't know what came over him, he didn't like Peter, but after his tirade his chest was moving heavily up and down and he just leaned over and kissed him.

It was not a gentle kiss. For those are reserved for loving, or caring, or ever affection. It was rough and hard, with his teeth nipping hard at Peter's lips until he parted them, and then his teeth crashing painfully with Peter's. Peter moaned, from pain, from want, from something, and Isaac kissed harder. Wrapping his hands in Peter's shaggy hair (that was even softer than it looked), and dragging Peter's face towards him.

Peter broke away and looked at him, his eyes confused and clouded. "What-?" But, the younger man had tasted sweet, slightly fruity, and slightly like something that danced on the tongue but which Isaac could not recognize. And that indefinable quality drove Isaac to take his face and kiss him again, gentler this time, for Peter was the type to go for affection and gentleness.

"I'll show you that I can keep a woman- or a man- satisfied." Isaac whispered it against his mouth before dragging him in for another kiss. He pulled at Peter's shirt, and managed to slip one of his hands under it, until tugging, it came off. Peter moaned again at the sharp slap of cold against his chest, and moved impossibly closer to Isaac to absorb his warmth.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days later Isaac stood up from his bed, and, ignoring the whimpered protests of Peter padded into the kitchen and grabbed himself a glass of milk, glad it was cold enough that it didn't matter whether or not his fridge was working (one of the first times he had been glad for the cold, seeing as how he hated it with a passion cultivated from growing up in the moist heat of Florida). The white sheet of paper he had given Peter caught his eye, and he walked quickly over to it, hissing every time his feet hit the cold cement floor.

As he turned it over he smirked. They hadn't done _that_ yet, and they did say body heat was the best way to keep warm.


End file.
